Poem Quotes - Page 5

A poem isn't selfish. It speaks to people.

Dreams like a podcast,Downloading truth in my ears.They tell me cool stuff.""Apollo?" I guess, because I figured nobody else could make a haiku that bad.He put his finger to his lips. "I'm incognito. Call me Fred.""A god named Fred?

I'm only leaving you for a handful of days, but it feels as though I'll be gone forever—- the way the door closes behind me with such solidity, the way my suitcase carries everything I'd need for an eternity of traveling light. I've left my hotel number on your desk, instructions about the dog and heating dinner. But like the weather front they warn is on its way with its switchblades of wind and ice, our lives have minds of their own.

I have fallen,for your words.They are like,a gossamer cobweb,I have been,embroiled,decoyed,snared into!Incapacitated.I fail to escape.I fail to liberate.Your words,didn't redeem,made me a,captive instead.

Anyone who claims good or evil isn't one or either, they're just a liar... the worst kind of liar... the liar that doesn't even know they're lying. We're human. We're good during the day and evil at night, half the time those roles are reversed, that's what it's all about.

The moon seems unawareof night's dark hittingon the damp warm rain misguiding owl's spitting A thunder light of loveraising hearts beatingwhile weather learns morefrom rain lovers meeting

தடைகளை தாண்டிப்பார்;இன்னல்களை தளர்த்திப்பார்,வாய்ப்புகளை பயன்படுத்திப்பார்,வெற்றி கிடைக்கும், பொறுத்திருந்து பார்,திரும்பிப்பார்க்கும், பெருத்த இந்த பார்!

Cruel, Clever Cat.Sally, having swallowed cheese,Directs down holes the scented breeze,Enticing thus with baited breathNice mice to an untimely death.

Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.

We, peopling the void air, make gods to whom we impute the ills we ought to bear.

She senses your vulnerability, and reassures that every dream you’ve ever whispered in the night, or secret desires you dared not speak, are all within the palm of her hand

...as we are endowed. ...with rhetorics. ...none will deny. ...of innocence. ...towards scribbling. ...of love lines. ...and of lust. ...to what seems like male. ...to what seems like female. ...in those days. ...I mean nothing. ...but in high school.....even me. ...I can't deny.

Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman’s tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn’t find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn’t make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, “that was a good time then, a good time to be living.” And I began to remember our time.tI recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. tI remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on.tAll these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling.tAt last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean’s shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, “yes, that’s how it was then, that part there was called France.” I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes.tWe all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture’s motion in time.

Poetry gives the greatest pleasure.

Get out of my head,You've overstayed your stay,This head no longer can spare more thoughts,Leave my aching heart alone,You weaved your web all over my heart,Captured what was never yours,The aching in my chest can't bare more,Get out of here,My soul is no longer a safe place.

Everything is still everything.The Poem Remains.

One has to commit a painting,' said Degas,'the way one commits a crime.

How long would our poem be?How much would it weigh?The first verse would be yours, of course−Age before beauty, you'd say.You would not rush so much as crest,a wave that spreads and breaksacross the eyes and ears to fillsome deeper, inner space.The next verse would be mine,self-conscious, yes, it's true,and full of fits and startsbut bits of music too.Would we share some lines then, just we two?Here's a place for my words;here, only yours will do,And would it matter, really,after all is said and done,who made which piece of glory?Who, this moon? Who, that sun?The pen drops from my hand,but there's still more to say.So I must write our final line,which is simplystay.

Everything is all right,When you’re here,When you’re right next to me,When my hand is in yours,Don’t leave me,Don’t leave me empty handed.

Adventures kept hidden, words kept silent. You became my greatest secret. And when you left, no one knew the source of the pain I felt. No one knew you existed, except my writhing heart.

Rash is he who at unknown doors relies on his good luck.

My wild heart craves shadows. Like a bat unfurling its wings, I open myself to darkness; I open myself to truth.

To write you into poems,and make you unerasable.

With a ring around the rosaryAnd a pocket full of crossesAshes to ashesThey'll all fall down

Going down in history is a dead end pursuit

The Law of the Jungle NOW this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear. And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair. When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail. When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again. If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away. Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man! If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide. The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies. The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will; But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill. Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same. Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same. Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own: He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone. Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!

Such a small, pure object a poem could be, made of nothing but air a tiny string of letters, maybe small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. But it could blow everybody's head off.

Poetry isn’t an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn’t a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn’t swimming. Poetry is water.

Today I introduced myself to my very own Heart,In silent agony, after all these years it bled apart.

Carry good cheer in the morning;Carry good cheer in the night.Effort is sweeter and living completer,If ever we walk in love's light.

Not every day is awful.Not every day is good.Despite the way the hours passI’m living like I should.Not every day is all wrong.Not every day is right.At least I’m not a spider trying to scamper out of sight.Not every day is ideal.Not every day is bad.At any rate I have my senseseven if they’re mad.Not every day is happy.Not every day is glum.When sadness drags me in the dumpsA simple tune I hum.Not every day I smile.Not every day I frown.With effort, I can take a scowland turn it upside down.Not every day is crazy.Not every day is sane.If consequence nips at my heelsI don’t pass on the blame.Not every day is giddy.Not every day is blah.Yet I can still appreciatea giggle and guffaw.Not every day is timid.Not every day is proud.I may not be a dragonbut I roar about as loud.Not every day has rainbows.Not every day has rain.Despite the fact I’m stiff and sore,I’m not in chronic pain.On every day the sun shines,so every night I praythat I might see the morning lightand live another day.

I paint the darkness and the silence, You see them as stars and poetry.

A set of excellent questions themselves is perhaps like a poem, both philosophical and intellectual.

Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.

Everyone is their own, though they are so alone. They all sit on their imagined thrones, made only of their own bones. Ego and pride make exquisite delusional cushions.

The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dustThe universe, for fear it gainIts freedom from my cube of brain.Yet dust bears seeds that grow to graceBehind my crude-striped wooden faceAs I, a puppet tinsel-pinkLeap on my springs, learn how to think—Till like the trembling golden stalkOf some long-petalled star, I walkThrough the dark heavens, and the dewFalls on my eyes and sense thrills through.

Little Maiden Encounters FearDeepest regions walked she therelittle maiden sweet and fairventured far from the pathnever a whispernever a laugh...

The universe on your skin is emptyfrom all the silence on your tongue.Forgive yourself. Let your body healfrom all the wounds you did not inflicton yourself. Drop the sword you carryon your shoulder for self-defense.Lower the armor you hold high upfor protection. Those who harmed youare not going to come back. Those whohave left never intended to return.

In the forty minutes I watched the muskrat, he never saw me, smelled me, or heard me at all. When he was in full view of course I never moved except to breathe. My eyes would move, too, following his, but he never noticed. Only once, when he was feeding from the opposite bank about eight feet away did he suddenly rise upright, all alert- and then he immediately resumed foraging. But he never knew I was there.I never knew I was there, either. For that forty minutes last night I was as purely sensitive and mute as a photographic plate; I received impressions, but I did not print out captions. My own self-awareness had disappeared; it seems now almost as though, had I been wired to electrodes, my EEG would have been flat. I have done this sort of thing so often that I have lost self-consciousness about moving slowly and halting suddenly. And I have often noticed that even a few minutes of this self-forgetfulness is tremendously invigorating. I wonder if we do not waste most of our energy just by spending every waking minute saying hello to ourselves. Martin Buber quotes an old Hasid master who said, “When you walk across the field with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, and all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.

I've triedto become someone else for a while,only to discover that he, too, was me.

Random thoughts that fly away. Where words has no place to stay. Let it be right where they are. Let the work of art preserve its life.

My Serinity,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved,Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened,Thee, my serenity,A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee wail, whine, cry,Like a gloomy, mourning brume,Thee, my serenity,Soared through fervor and delight,To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth,One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure,Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune,Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp,Thee, my serenity, one can not bear,Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart,Lean on my shoulders now,My beautiful, wonderful Lily,That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of,Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer,As I promise, to my most dear,The girl to my heart, always near,Come what may, don’t age a year,That I will be, forever here,

No poem of mine will, be as beautiful as the one; I create on your lips.

Where there is love, there is no need.Where there is need, there is suffering.

Don't be polite.Bite in.Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that may run down your chin. It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are. You do not need a knife or fork or spoon.For there is no coreor stemor rindor pitor seedor skinto throw away.

I am not soft. I do not have that luxury. I am the wolf in girl’s clothing; all snarls and claws. My mother once told me: be gentle, be kind. She forgot to mention that the world was full of beasts, and if I wanted to survive I would have to become one myself.

Sipping teawith gleebeneath a gooseberry tree.I wish Alice were here.Oh, my dear,do not fear,she will be.

she wanted because art

Lucifer unbound his absolutionHis purpose took unstoppable formA wyrm whose brilliance blindedTenacity burned as radiant as the AlmightyLucifer remembered this so vividlyA fond memory of when God stood thunderstruck

A double-edged swordOne side destroysOne releasesI am your Gordian knotWill you release or destroy me?Follow truth and you shall:Find me on waterPurify me through fireTrapped by earth nevermoreAir will whisper to youWhat spirit already knows:That even shatteredanything is possibleIf you believeThen we shall both be free.

UNDIVIDEDI am for One world undivided. One world without fear and corruption. One world ruled by Truth and Justice. I am forOne peaceful world for all,Where hate has been overcome by love,And everyone is guided only By their conscience.

Air of dustFor a moment I was a storm cloud,All righteous booming thunder;All sharp and pinning,Dazzling.Once the flashing fadedA sizzling prong sprang upwards.I was positively popped.The static situationStruck meNegatively, And I leaked out sulfur on the peopleWho dared hold up the sky.Strong storms are still bonelessAnd mostly all alone.

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something…

I think i should get love inked on my skin.Maybe that's the only way i am destined to keep it.

Poetry is another name for a person’s telling of the self, existence and what is beyond, and one’s own perceptions.

The moon twangs its silver strings;The river swoons into town;The wind beds down in the pines,Covers itself with stars.

Your daily war chant: ( screaming it is mandatory! )Ooooooooh today, today I will see,what a happy place the world can be!I will make someone smile,refuse to being vile!I will share what I love,take someone high above,in the sky, between the cloudswith joyful shouts!Today, today even you will see,What a happy place the world can be!Make it happen, enjoy your day,Remember it is a temporary stay,here on earth, this single hour,today I give my love a flower!YEAAAAAH! Today I kick life’s behind,making good what is unkind!Making smile who is not grinning!And this is only the beginning!Today.I.am. AAAAAAALIVEE!

sometimes it's hard to knowwhat todo.

Another breath, left to translate

tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play— I tell you, Dorian, that it is on things like these that our lives depend.